Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)

by Ginger Scott

  “I don’t want you to fight him,” I exhale, tucking my face into his arms, burying myself into him even more. His body grows rigid—he didn’t realize I knew.

  He doesn’t answer, but I feel his chin adjust above my head, his breathing slow, a silent apology.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” I finally admit, and he holds me tighter, kissing my head, then whispering one more promise in my ear.

  “I won’t,” he says. “I can’t walk away, Emma, but I won’t let him hurt me…or you. I swear.”

  I nod okay, but stay in my cocoon of his arms, not sure that he can keep this promise. Graham is two different people, and they are both manipulative, each possessing a different kind of charm. And now that I’ve seen both sides, I worry that there’s yet another side I haven’t seen—one that doesn’t live in the rational, human world, and one that holds grudges and seeks revenge at any cost. The thought that Andrew’s exactly that type doesn’t warm my heart either—and I’m afraid when they’re forced together, the destruction will be impossible to come back from.

  Chapter 20

  Andrew

  Well that went about as well as I expected.

  I woke up early, leaving Emma a note, then rushed to her apartment before work so I could try and talk with Lindsey. She never unhooked the chain, only opening the door wide enough to gain some distance to slam it closed. I think if my fingers or face had been in the way, she would have used more muscle, too.

  I slid the letter under her door anyhow, begging her to meet me after work this morning at the coffee shop on her corner. I figured it would be safe. I didn’t think Emma would walk down this street until she knew it wouldn’t result in a painful run-in with her roommate.

  I glance through the window as I walk toward the entrance, and the café is nearly empty, minus one or two students holed up in a booth with their laptops and piles of books. I glance at my watch, which says I’m right on time, then take a deep breath as I walk through the door and prepare for my plan to crash and burn.

  “I’ll take a large iced coffee,” I say to the guy behind the counter. He pulls out a cup and writes my order on the side of it, then rings me up on the register. I remove my wallet to pay.

  “Add a non-fat soy latte to that,” I hear over my shoulder. I don’t startle, but I definitely breathe. I nod yes to the guy, then hand him my card, paying for both orders.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say, turning enough to the side to catch her profile. She’s dressed in a business suit, her hair pinned back in a clip, and the look surprises me a little.

  “I have an interview. It’s for an internship at the clinic. You get fifteen minutes,” she says through tight lips.

  We both wait for our coffees in awkward silence, then I follow her to a small table near the corner windows. Might as well be on display for everyone that walks by; maybe it will keep her from hitting me again.

  “Your chin looks like shit,” she says, blowing on her coffee after removing the lid. I chuckle and run my finger along the rough stitches, then pull the lid from my coffee to take a drink.

  “Look, I know you didn’t want to come here this morning, so thank you. Thank you for coming,” I say, setting my cup down and folding my hands together, my elbows resting on the table.

  “I didn’t come for you. I came because you said I needed to know about Emma,” she says. Her tone is angry and clipped, but she admitted she came here for Emma, and that’s all I need to hear.

  “Right. Emma,” I say, cracking my knuckles and looking at my hands.

  “I swear to god, Drew, if you’re here to tell me you made a mistake, and you’re going to break up with her now, I will punch you again—right in those stitches,” she says, pointing one of her perfectly polished nails right at my chin. I don’t doubt her threat for a second, so I lean back in my seat to give me some distance, and inhale to calm myself and make sure I get through to her—about how much she means to Emma, and how much Emma needs her now.

  “That Graham guy, the one she went out with a couple nights ago? He hit her, Linds. That douchebag hit her, and I…I don’t know what else, but I know she fought, and it could have been worse,” I say, my nostrils flaring as the anger boils inside. Lindsey holds her gaze on me, her brow lowering just a touch, her lips pursing tighter, and I can tell that she still loves Emma by the way her breathing turns into a charge of fury.

  “What is she going to do?” she asks, her eyes not leaving mine.

  I breathe in deeply and push my cup a few inches along the table, wiping away the cold, wet ring it leaves behind on the table. “Nothing,” I say. I feel Lindsey lean forward with the urge to speak, so I keep going. “And I guess there isn’t much she can do. He’s that doctor’s son, and it would make things complicated. Honestly, at this point? You probably know more about that part of her life than I do. I told her she should say something to someone, or at least talk to someone…other than me. She’s just…she’s just going to move on, though, I guess. But I think it would help a hell of a lot if you were around to help her.”

  I glance up at her, and she’s still rigid, her mouth a firm line as she blinks and eventually looks down at her own drink. She pulls it to her lips, sipping slowly, and I can see there’s part of her that wants to bend, but I also see the shattered trust and hurt, too.

  “I know I’m a broken record, but I swear Lindsey—this entire thing—it’s on me. And you were Emma’s only priority. All she wanted was for you to be happy,” I say.

  “Then she should have told me the truth. The truth would have made me happy. Knowing my best friend trusted me enough to tell me everything…that’s what would have made me happy,” she says, her voice soft and distant.

  “I get that. And I think if Emma could go back, she would. But she couldn’t decide then what would hurt you less. And I didn’t make it easy. I’m just asking for you to be open to the idea of forgiving her. She needs you, Linds. And I think maybe you miss her too,” I say.

  Her eyes meet mine for a few seconds before she pulls her wrist up, checking the time again, and tugging her purse close to her body. She takes a large final sip of her drink, plunking it on the table in front of me and dusting the corners of her mouth with a napkin she quickly folds and stuffs inside the empty cup.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Andrew,” she says, her mouth tight. “It’s been…well, I’d say it’s been real, but it never was…was it?”

  “I’m sorry, Lindsey,” I shrug. She nods once, then slides a pair of sunglasses on her face, turning, leaving, and never looking back.

  With my failed attempt with Lindsey behind me, I jog into campus, making sure to make an appearance at my classes for the day. I’ve marked the dates for tests on my calendar, and I never miss those, but it seems I’ve missed a quiz or two in calculus. I’m still getting an A, but it’s by the skin of my teeth, so I make a tentative promise to myself that I’ll show for the rest of my classes this semester. Scholarships are like gold for me, and I have to piece them together—B’s don’t really help the cause.

  I check my phone obsessively, waiting to hear from Emma, and by the time I’m in my last class for the day, I break, sliding my phone into my lap so I can send her a message. I glance at the photo I sent her first, and the purple around her eye sends a shock through my core, and my fists form on instinct.

  I look up, checking the status of where we’re at in my Neighborhood and Urban Poverty class, my last undergrad sociology credit, and a class I took in high school. Turns out they make you take a lot of shit again when you check out of honors college to do a stint in juvie.

  Feeling confident that I know where the lesson is, I lean one arm over the small desktop in front of me to make it look like I’m listening, then glance down to type my text.

  How are you today?

  A few minutes pass, torturous seconds that feel like an hour before she writes back.

  I’m good. I just bought my ticket for this hockey game tonight. Don’t tell anyone, but I
know one of the players.

  I grin like a fool over the fact that Emma’s coming to watch me, but then I think about the long walk she has from the rink back to my apartment—alone—and in a millisecond I’ve zipped up my bag and sprinted from the back door of the lecture hall.

  It takes me about five minutes to catch up to where she is, and I see her standing at the stoplight on the busy corner, looking at her phone, waiting for me to write back.

  You shouldn’t text and walk that close to the road. You could get hit by a car.

  I cross my arms and wait for her to read, and she immediately starts looking for me, her eyes finally finding me and her smile lighting up my world. She takes a few steps away from the curb then types me one more note.

  Stalker.

  I grin again and write back.

  That’s not what you called me last night.

  I can see her blush from here. Rather than tease her any longer, I push my phone in my back pocket and jog over to where she’s waiting, not giving her time to say another word as I pull her into me and kiss her so hard that it feels like I’m branding her with my affection.

  “Wow,” she says, stumbling back on her feet. “Do all ticketholders get one of those?”

  I shrug and nod yes. “Trent makes out with the old ladies. I get the hot ones,” I smile. She giggles before punching me lightly in the gut.

  “You better not be giving those kisses out for free,” she says.

  “Not anymore, Em. Not anymore,” I say, no laughter now.

  I sling my arm around her shoulder and pull her into me tightly as we step into the intersection. We make idle chat at first, me asking her about her day, her mine. But I can tell there’s something bigger on her mind, and part of me is worried it’s me.

  “Hey,” I say, stopping our walk so she can face me as I lightly run my thumb over her chin. “What’s buggin’ you?”

  She looks down, a faint laugh through a frown, then shrugs as she looks back up at me.

  “Lindsey wasn’t in class today. I know you said it would just take time, but I was kind of hoping I’d at least see her, ya know?” Her mouth twists into disappointment. I wish I had good news for her, a curtain I could pull back and her life would be perfect on the other side, just waiting for her to step right through. But I don’t, and I hate that I can’t cure her anxiety.

  “She’ll come back. I know it,” I say, squeezing her close so I can kiss her head. It’s not a lie. I saw it in Lindsey’s eyes, and if I have to keep stalking her just to remind her of what she’s missing, I will.

  As we walk up the pathway to my apartment door, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out to read, expecting an update from Trent on what time he wants to get to the rink for pregame. He likes to get there before everyone else, and I usually join him. I hold the door open for Emma and glance at my phone as she passes, my mind not understanding the message at first until I realize who it’s from. It’s Harley. And that fight he had scheduled for me for a few weeks from now—it’s been moved up.

  Rich boy wants to show off what he’s got Sunday night. I can’t get a venue, so it’ll be here. The money line is trending big on your favorite round if you know what I’m sayin’.

  My stomach rolls when I read his message, and I slow as I trail behind Emma toward my room. My eyes stay on my phone as I follow her through my door, closing it behind us, and my heartbeat is drumming out every other sound as I realize I’m going to have to tell her. I will never lie to Emma—ever.

  “So can I wear one of your Tech Hockey shirts? I want to look like I fit in…” She stops talking the instant she turns to face me, the joy from moments ago sucked away into the black hole of doom that I can’t seem to avoid when it comes to all things me-and-Emma-Burke.

  She never asks. I don’t wait for her to. She deserves to know, and my gut told me the second she asked me not to fight Graham that I would tell her the minute I got the call. There’s also no way I’m letting her near him—she’ll be safe, here, in my home with Trent, when I fight.

  “That was my guy…at the gym. Graham set a date,” I say, glancing back at my phone, sort of hoping that there’s a follow-up saying everything’s been cancelled. I won’t back out—but I wouldn’t exactly be upset if he did at this point.

  “When?” she asks, falling to my bed, pulling her knees up and hiding her mouth behind the tops. Damn, I hate that she’s stressed over this or worried. I hate that she’s thinking about Graham. And I hate that bruise on her face. That’s the one thing justifying what I’m going to do.

  “Sunday,” I say, my jaw flexing as I swallow. The part of me that wants to protect her hates to tell her any of this.

  But I will never lie.

  “That’s in two days,” she says, her eyes staring at her kneecaps, her fingers gripping her jean-covered shins.

  I move closer, slowly, lifting one foot in my hand, pulling her leg from her grip and taking her shoe off. I rest that foot on the floor and do the same with her other leg. The entire time, her eyes never quite make it to mine. She’s afraid to look at me, and I know it’s because she’s afraid to show me she’s afraid.

  I step in between her legs and kneel down, running my hands along her thighs and then around her, hugging her to me, my head resting on her lap.

  “I will be okay, Emma. I won’t let him hurt you, and he won’t hurt me. I’m stronger than he is,” I say, and deep down I know I am. He may have me in size, but my heart beats for this girl, and when I have that in my corner, there’s nothing I can’t defeat.

  “I don’t trust him, Andrew,” she says, and I feel her body shake once beneath me, but she holds it in, not wanting to cry in front of me. I stand to my feet, taking her hands to pull her to hers, and the second she rises, I sweep her into my arms, sitting with her on my lap. She folds into me, her fit perfect, like everything I’ve ever been missing.

  “I’m scared,” she says, her eyes closed, her face pressed into my chest. Her breathing slows, but I feel every rise and fall.

  “I’m so scared. I can’t lie to you. I won’t,” she pauses, her voice trailing off. She rolls her head against me, her forehead pressed against my heart, her face still shielded from my view. “If you’re going to stand in a ring with him…I want you to kill him.”

  I hold her tightly, and I feel her muscles tense. I feel her anger, and I feel her worry. I kiss her head and run my hands down her back, wanting nothing more than to make her worries disappear and her wishes come true. After a few minutes, I sway her playfully, but when it doesn’t produce a smile, I stop. We are at a depth too deep for small gestures. What she needs now is love, protection, and a guarantee. I promise her the world, but the voice in the back of my head also reminds me who I am.

  Good doesn’t usually come to the Harpers.

  * * *

  Emma

  Andrew is amazing on the ice. He’s always been beautiful to watch out there—the grace with which he skates, such a contrast to the force he can deliver when he wants something badly enough.

  He wants to destroy Graham Wheaton. I can see it in his eyes. What scares me is I want him to destroy him too. I want Graham to pay, to repent, to disappear—I want him to vanish from all of my memories. But Andrew can’t make that happen. Nobody can. And the risk that he might lose something bigger than the gamble he’s making in that ring consumes my every thought.

  Andrew was slow to return in the third period. He was missing from the bench, and I went absolutely insane as I sat here alone wondering where he could be. This is the trouble with having zero friends—no wing-woman of rationality, and all logic is lost.

  He returned a few minutes into the third with the trainer, probably needing to be taped or iced for one of the blows he took on the ice. And as much relief that it gave me to see him there, where he should be, it wasn’t enough to quell what was really worrying me. I’m afraid Graham Wheaton is going to play dirty and take out my rejection on him. I’m also afraid Graham is powerful enough to g
et away with it.

  I’m in a haze for most of the final minutes, my mind on rapid-fire in search of a way to get Andrew out of this, something I could dangle as an incentive to deter him, a trick to keep him out of that ring and away from that gym Sunday night. But he wouldn’t fall for it, and I don’t want to trick him.

  I wait as the crowd clears out, moving over to the small exit near the bench where Andrew told me to wait for him before the game. He and Trent are two of the first to leave. I notice a group of girls hovering above the bench waiting for the players to exit; they begin to maneuver their way closer. Andrew brushes by them, scooping me up against his side, his body warm from the shower he just took.

  I kiss him hard, my hands grabbing at his face, and as I pull away, I stare down a pair of twins eyeing him. Andrew follows my gaze, then looks back to me, pressing his forehead against mine as he chuckles.

  “They’re not here for me,” he says. “The chicks always swarm for Trent. They know which one of us is going to make NHL bank one day.”

  “I don’t know, those twins were making googley eyes at you. I think you’re selling yourself short,” I say.

  “Twins? Where?” he jokes, jerking away from me to look, but coming back quickly, leaning me back in his arms with a possessive kiss, the roughness of his stubble scratching sweetly against my cold cheeks and chin.

  “Come on, let’s get you home,” he says, taking my hand in his, weaving his fingers through mine, his eyes watching our connection before dropping his hand between us. “That will never get old,” he grins.

  We walk to his car, dropping his gear in the trunk and waiting for Trent to take his compliments from his fan girls and catch up. Trent insists I take the front seat, and we make the short trip home, the conversation centered on their three-to-one win over Ohio State.

  There’s an actual skip to Andrew’s step as he walks up to his apartment, and it makes me smile seeing it. He’s happy, and his body can’t help but reflect it. He keeps rehashing plays on the ice with Trent, and his friend gives Andrew credit where it’s wholly deserved.